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Porthos watched after d'Artagnan as he left. He didn't quite know why, other than that the kid was as prone to trouble as Athos was to drink, and if he could keep an eye on him for as long as possible, well, that was two more minutes in which he could be certain the kid hadn't gotten himself killed. The boy had come to apologize, because unlike the others, he had doubted him. For a moment. Just a moment. But he'd come and he'd begged forgiveness, and spread his arms open, inviting him to land a blow. And that just unsettled something in Porthos.
He wasn't going lie though, it hurt a little to be doubted when he had so much confidence in the young Gascon from the start. But he supposed he could understand. D'Artagnan did not know them as well as they knew each other and was still trying to figure out just where he fit in. He'd gravitated towards Athos for the more than anyone, though he was chummy enough with Aramis - even going so far as to lie to Treville for him when Aramis was trying to shelter a traitor. So if he trusted the others with that - why not Porthos? He shook his head. There was no point in dwelling on it, and if he'd actually been angry at the kid, he would have decked him in the face.
No, that wasn't what was wrong. Not really. It was how close he'd come to being executed. It was different, from the danger of dying in battle, he decided. Falsely accused, stripped of all his honour, ridiculed by that prejudiced bastard of a judge - treated like no more than a common criminal, when he'd only ever been loyal to the Musketeers.
He needed a drink. He wanted company.
And he had a feeling he knew just where he might find both.
If he was honest, Athos half expected him to appear. It had been Porthos, after all, who had dragged him home after his own almost-execution. If the man wanted to get completely plastered, to borrow one of his choice phrases, he would be well within his rights.
"Madame! A hearty ale for my friend here, I think" he called to the barmaid, who rolled her eyes and went to fetch a tankard. Porthos sat down heavily, not saying a word. Athos could see that he was troubled - after all that had occurred today, he'd have trouble finding anyone who wouldn't be.
The woman sat the ale down in front of him, and he took it and downed it in one, slamming it down on the table when he was done. Athos just raised an eyebrow expressively and called for a refill. If Porthos wanted to talk, he would. If not, well, drinking in silence was not a completely foreign concept.
"It's messed up, isn't it?" Porthos asked. Athos inclined his head in agreement. He could sense that his friend was not done with his comment yet, and so waited for it to continue. "We spend our lives defending king and country - and yet one of us seems to end up in chains awaiting execution every two weeks."
"You forget," Athos remarked, "That d'Artagnan was taking part in a covert operation". As he spoke, the corner of his mouth turned upwards into half a smile.
"Still nearly got killed. But yeah - only one who's been missing out is Aramis." Athos smiled again and rolled his eyes.
"If he keeps giving Anne of Austria the Stare, he might not be for much longer." Porthos couldn't help himself. He laughed, which only made Athos smile the wider.
"It cheers my heart to hear your laughter once again, my friend. Come, let us drink to being pardoned and spared the firing squad, or the rope around our necks!" he took a long swig from his bottle of wine, and Porthos ordered yet more ale. They drank the night away - and this time it was Athos who had to carry his comrade home. Though he was heavy, he did not begrudge the task in the least. Having his friend in his arms as he dragged him, drink on his hot breath, stinking to high heaven, the warm body beneath his hands - it reminded him that his friend was still here. That they were both still here. And for tonight, that was enough.